


who could ask for more

by boccardo_syllogism



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16983459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/pseuds/boccardo_syllogism
Summary: Music and passion were always the fashion at Wardlow...





	who could ask for more

**Author's Note:**

> This is one hundred percent Barry Manilow's fault.
> 
> Thanks to aurora_australis for the beta!

The quiet murmur of familiar voices at the door makes Phryne smile from her perch on the window seat. She’s been looking forward to this all week - both her and Jack’s caseloads have been unusually heavy of late and they haven’t seen each other as often as she’d like. But tonight she’s got him and his nimble hands all to herself and she has _plans._

Those plans, however, go straight out of her mind when Jack walks into the parlour a few moments later.

He looks tired, and drawn, and while his mouth tips in his customary not-smile as he greets her, the quiet pleasure she’s used to seeing in his eyes when he accepts her invitations to dinner is tempered by something somber. To a casual observer, he would appear perfectly at ease; Phryne presses a kiss to his cheek and a tumbler of whiskey into his hand, not even bothering to ask first.

“Am I that obvious?” Jack says ruefully.

“Only to me, darling,” she says, and with a sigh he drops all pretense of anything but weariness. Phryne leads him to the chaise and sinks down next to him, watching as he savours the whiskey. She’s not involved in most of his cases. Still, most of the ones that affect him like this are usually complex enough that he only makes token protests before welcoming her help. Dot had said only this morning that Hugh was pleased with how quickly City South was closing cases, so it couldn’t be that…

Jack clears his throat. “It’s been a while since I was under this much scrutiny.”

“Well, you _are_ so enjoyable to look at,” Phryne purrs, pleased when she gets a pointed head tilt in return.

“I should know better by now than to expect you to do anything but throw yourself into solving any mystery you’re presented with,” Jack says, all fond resignation. “There was a murder. Well, two.”

“And you didn’t ask me along?” Phryne asks, more for the sake of their usual banter than any real annoyance.

“No need.” He takes another long sip of his whiskey. “It was fairly clear what happened.”

“Oh?”

“Collins and I were called in to one of those illicit clubs you’re so fond of.” Phryne inhales sharply, mind racing, but Jack shakes his head. “Not one of the ones you frequent - I’ve never heard you talk about one with a Cuban theme.”

“No,” she says, feeling relieved. That night so long ago at the Green Mill was more than enough murder for her taste in nightlife.

“The barman and the dancer were having a torrid affair. By all accounts, a patron made a pass at the dancer, the barman didn’t take kindly to it, and there was a vicious brawl that ended with a gunshot and both men dead.” Jack sighs and sets his empty tumbler on the table. “As open-and-shut as it gets for the police, but the poor woman…”

“Will she be all right?”

“It was like she just shut down. Once she stopped crying, her eyes went… blank.”

She knows exactly what he means, and why it’s shaken him so badly. They’ve both seen more than their fair share of people hollowed out and empty, turned numb in the face of unimaginable suffering, and every pair of vacant eyes chills the soul just as badly as the first.

“Well,” she says, taking his hands in hers, “There’s plenty of whiskey in this decanter, Mr. Butler has spent most of the afternoon preparing something that smells absolutely divine for dinner, and I do believe my bathtub upstairs is large enough to comfortably fit two.”

Jack does smile at that - a real one. “Are you trying to proposition me, Miss Fisher?”

“Not at all, Jack,” she says primly.

“No?”

“No.” Phryne leans in to kiss him softly, deploying every trick she knows to make it the sort of sweet, intimate kiss Jack adores but won’t admit to liking, and pulls back only when his hands have gone utterly pliant. “I’m simply stating facts. If, however, you’d like to be propositioned…”

“I think I could be persuaded,” he rumbles, settling against the back of the chaise. For the first time since he walked into her house, his shoulders are loose and relaxed. “Under the greatest duress, of course.”

“Of course,” Phryne agrees, with the kind of gravitas she usually reserves for talking with bereaved families. “Your sacrifice for the cause is very admirable.”

“Mm.” Jack pulls at her gently until she settles on his lap, arms curled around his neck, and rests his head on her shoulder. “Thank you, Phryne,” he murmurs into the fabric of her dress.

“For what?” she asks, beginning to play with his hair. The pomade is starting to lose its daily battle with the messy curls she’s grown fond of seeing in the mornings, which really means there’s no alternative but to help it along its way.

“You know.”

She does.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't understand how I managed to take the idea of writing a fic in which the murder is literally just the plot of Copacabana and somehow make it angsty. I mean, it's a pretty depressing song when you get past the fact that it's a banger, but even so.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [preux-chevalier!](preux-chevalier.tumblr.com)


End file.
